The Four Just Men
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About this ebook
When the Foreign Secretary Sir Philip Ramon receives a threatening, greenish-grey letter signed FOUR JUST MEN, he remains determined to see his Aliens Extradition Bill made law. A device in the members' smokeroom and a sudden magnesium flash that could easily have been nitro-glycerine leave Scotland Yard baffled. Even Fleet Street cannot identify the illusive Manfred, Gonsalez, Pioccart and Thery - FOUR JUST MEN dedicated to punishing by death those whom conventional justice can not touch.
Edgar Wallace
Edgar Wallace (1875-1932) was a London-born writer who rose to prominence during the early twentieth century. With a background in journalism, he excelled at crime fiction with a series of detective thrillers following characters J.G. Reeder and Detective Sgt. (Inspector) Elk. Wallace is known for his extensive literary work, which has been adapted across multiple mediums, including over 160 films. His most notable contribution to cinema was the novelization and early screenplay for 1933’s King Kong.
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Titles in the series (5)
The Four Just Men Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Council Of Justice Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Just Men Of Cordova Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Law Of The Four Just Men Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Three Just Men Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
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Reviews for The Four Just Men
8 ratings8 reviews
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This was an enjoyable read. An audio from the free summer program and I enjoyed the story and the narrator. The Four Just Men are a group of men who are seek to set right injustices even if death is required. It is a fun mystery thriller.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Not really worth it. A dimestore novel, but it's outlived its usefulness. Too many characters, and a plot which is promoted as "one of the great puzzles of crime fiction" but really hangs entirely on contrivance. Points, though, for some of the unexpected deviations - the story of Billy Marks is affectingly handled - and for its surprising timeliness: a story about well-meaning activists who become terrorists in their bid to stop an illegal immigration bill planned by self-righteous-but-decent politicians. Interesting, but unworthy.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Four Just Men is a mystery by Edgar Wallace, one of the most popular writers in England in the early 20th century. The self-named Four Just Men are vigilantes of a sort, traveling to various parts of the world to correct what they perceive as slights to justice. They are in the business of righting wrongs, fatally so.In the particular tale told by Wallace they are acting atypically. They are proclaiming their intent publically and being pro-active, i.e. they threaten to commit an act of murder on a certain high minister in the British government, should the government pursue what they perceive to be an unjust course of action.As Wallace's tale unfolds we see the history of the Four Just Men emerge and begin to understand the motives for their actions. Cases of curious deaths now find that there is a thread linking them. That the Four Just Men are murderers is not in doubt, but the cases in which they have acted to appear to be egregious miscarriages of justice. Perhaps there is a just purpose in their course of action.Wallace's tale is well-told. There is a steady level of suspense but crafted in such a way as to be reasonably plausible. The outcome is never clear until the tale's very end. And you'll have to read for yourself, because it is too good to give away in a review!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5THE FOUR JUST MEN was Edgar Wallace's first foray into mystery writing. Initially self published, the public was then invited to supply the solution to the mystery for prices amounting to a total of £1000 (incidentally the same amount that was offered for the capture of the four just men in the novel itself).The marketing campaign Wallace had designed was ingenious and quite ahead of its time, though crippled him financially for quite some time.The book is a quick and fast read with an interesting concept: A group of men serve as judges and executioners for injustices worldwide that would otherwise not be captured. Trouble is that the case in this novel really doesn't make all that much sense. A politician is threatened with his execution unless he drops a controversial new bill. One would think that a bill could be passed whether or not one single politician is alive or dead and in actual fact, although the sympathies are supposed to be lying with our anti-heroes, it is indeed the smug politician who ends up getting the reader's sympathies for his head strong insistence on going on with what he considers to be the right thing.Still, this is a Must Read for anyone even remotely interested in Edgar Wallace.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Interesting twist to the mystery format - the book starts with the "4 just men" (vigilantes) planning the death of English minister Ramon and the murder doesn't occur until almost the very end.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Wallace frct ig success as a writre, about a group of men who take it upon themselves to might out what they regard as justice
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Really rather tedious. Sadly this novel hasn't aged well.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5'The Four Just Men' of the title are a criminal group that only kill their victims under strict rules. Those who commit crimes,which are perhaps not seen as crimes by all,are their prey. They work under the most stringent codes of conduct such as delivering a number of warnings that if their crimes or conduct is changed,then the death threats will be removed.The British Foreign Secretary intends to pass a Bill which is thought by many to be flawed and which will do much harm. The Just Men give him his warnings which he intends to ignore although he is badly frightened.Edgar Wallace has once more given us a superb thriller of the 'Locked Room' type. An excellent read and one in which the Just Men excel.
Book preview
The Four Just Men - Edgar Wallace
PROLOGUE - Thery’s Trade
If you leave the Plaza del Mina, go down the narrow street, where, from ten till four, the big flag of the United States Consulate hangs lazily; through the square on which the Hotel de la France fronts, round by the Church of Our Lady, and along the clean, narrow thoroughfare that is the High Street of Cadiz, you will come to the Café of the Nations.
At five o’clock there will be few people in the broad, pillared saloon, and usually the little round tables that obstruct the sidewalk before its doors are untenanted.
In the late summer (in the year of the famine) four men sat about one table and talked business.
Leon Gonsalez was one, Poiccart was another, George Manfred was a notable third, and one, Thery, or Saimont, was the fourth. Of this quartet, only Thery requires no introduction to the student of contemporary history. In the Bureau of Public Affairs you will find his record. As Thery, alias Saimont, he is registered.
You may, if you are inquisitive, and have the necessary permission, inspect his photograph taken in eighteen positions – with his hands across his broad chest, full faced, with a three days’ growth of beard, profile, with – but why enumerate the whole eighteen?
There are also photographs of his ears – and very ugly, bat-shaped ears they are – and a long and comprehensive story of his life.
Signor Paolo Mantegazza, Director of the National Museum of Anthropology, Florence, has done Thery the honour of including him in his admirable work (see chapter on ‘Intellectual Value of a Face’); hence I say that to all students of criminology and physiognomy, Thery must need no introduction.
He sat at a little table, this man, obviously ill at ease, pinching his fat cheeks, smoothing his shaggy eyebrows, fingering the white scar on his unshaven chin, doing all the things that the lower classes do when they suddenly find themselves placed on terms of equality with their betters.
For although Gonsalez, with the light blue eyes and the restless hands, and Poiccart, heavy, saturnine, and suspicious, and George Manfred, with his grey-shot beard and single eyeglass, were less famous in the criminal world, each was a great man, as you shall learn.
Manfred laid down the Heraldo di Madrid, removed his eyeglass, rubbed it with a spotless handkerchief, and laughed quietly.
These Russians are droll,
he commented.
Poiccart frowned and reached for the newspaper. Who is it – this time?
A governor of one of the Southern Provinces.
Killed?
Manfred’s moustache curled in scornful derision.
Bah! Who ever killed a man with a bomb! Yes, yes; I know it has been done – but so clumsy, so primitive, so very much like undermining a city wall that it may fall and slay – amongst others – your enemy.
Poiccart was reading the telegram deliberately and without haste, after his fashion.
The Prince was severely injured and the would-be assassin lost an arm,
he read, and pursed his lips disapprovingly. The hands of Gonsalez, never still, opened and shut nervously, which was Leon’s sign of perturbation.
Our friend here
– Manfred jerked his head in the direction of Gonsalez and laughed – our friend has a conscience and–
Only once,
interrupted Leon quickly, and not by my wish you remember, Manfred; you remember, Poiccart
– he did not address Thery – I advised against it. You remember?
He seemed anxious to exculpate himself from the unspoken charge. It was a miserable little thing, and I was in Madrid,
he went on breathlessly, and they came to me, some men from a factory at Barcelona. They said what they were going to do, and I was horror-stricken at their ignorance of the elements of the laws of chemistry. I wrote down the ingredients and the proportions, and begged them, yes, almost on my knees, to use some other method. ‘My children,’ I said, ‘you are playing with something that even chemists are afraid to handle. If the owner of the factory is a bad man, by all means exterminate him, shoot him, wait on him after he has dined and is slow and dull, and present a petition with the right hand and – with the left hand – so!
Leon twisted his knuckles down and struck forward and upward at an imaginary oppressor. But they would listen to nothing I had to say.
Manfred stirred the glass of creamy liquid that stood at his elbow and nodded his head with an amused twinkle in his grey eyes.
I remember – several people died, and the principal witness at the trial of the expert in explosives was the man for whom the bomb was intended.
Thery cleared his throat as if to speak, and the three looked at him curiously. There was some resentment in Thery’s voice.
I do not profess to be a great man like you, señors. Half the time I don’t understand what you are talking about – you speak of governments and kings and constitutions and causes. If a man does me an injury I smash his head
– he hesitated – I do not know how to say it…but I mean…well, you kill people without hating them, men who have not hurt you. Now, that is not my way…
He hesitated again, tried to collect his thoughts, looked intently at the middle of the roadway, shook his head, and relapsed into silence.
The others looked at him, then at one another, and each man smiled. Manfred took a bulky case from his pocket, extracted an untidy cigarette, re-rolled it deftly and struck a government match on the sole of his boot.
Your-way-my-dear-Thery
– he puffed – is a fool’s way. You kill for benefit; we kill for justice, which lifts us out of the ruck of professional slayers. When we see an unjust man oppressing his fellows; when we see an evil thing done against the good God
– Thery crossed himself – and against man – and know that by the laws of man this evildoer may escape punishment – we punish.
Listen,
interrupted the taciturn Poiccart: once there was a girl, young and beautiful, up there
– he waved his hand northward with unerring instinct – and a priest – a priest, you understand – and the parents winked at it because it is often done…but the girl was filled with loathing and shame, and would not go a second time, so he trapped her and kept her in a house, and then when the bloom was off turned her out, and I found her. She was nothing to me, but I said, ‘Here is a wrong that the law cannot adequately right.’ So one night I called on the priest with my hat over my eyes and said that I wanted him to come to a dying traveller. He would not have come then, but I told him that the dying man was rich and was a great person. He mounted the horse I had brought, and we rode to a little house on the mountain… I locked the door and he turned round – so! Trapped, and he knew it. ‘What are you going to do?’ he said with a gasping noise. ‘I am going to kill you, señor,’ I said, and he believed me. I told him the story of the girl… He screamed when I moved towards him, but he might as well have saved his breath. ‘Let me see a priest,’ he begged; and I handed him – a mirror.
Poiccart stopped to sip his coffee.
They found him on the road next day without a mark to show how he died,
he said simply.
How?
Thery bent forward eagerly, but Poiccart permitted himself to smile grimly, and made no response.
Thery bent his brows and looked suspiciously from one to the other.
If you kill as you say you can, why have you sent for me? I was happy in Jerez working at the wine factory…there is a girl there…they call her Juan Samarez.
He mopped his forehead and looked quickly from one to the other. When I received your message I thought I should like to kill you – whoever you were – you understand I am happy…and there is the girl – and the old life I have forgotten–
Manfred arrested the incoherent protests.
Listen,
said he imperiously; it is not for you to inquire the wherefore and the why; we know who you are and what you are; we know more of you even than the police know, for we could send you to the garotte.
Poiccart nodded his head in affirmation, and Gonsalez look at Thery curiously, like the student of human nature that he was.
We want a fourth man,
went on Manfred, for something we wish to do; we would have wished to have had one animated by no other desire than to see justice done. Failing that, we must have a criminal, a murderer if you like.
Thery opened and shut his mouth as if about to speak.
One whom we can at a word send to his death if he fails us; you are the man; you will run no risk; you will be well rewarded; you may not be asked to slay. Listen,
went on Manfred, seeing that Thery had opened his mouth to speak. Do you know England? I see that you do not. You know Gibraltar? Well, this is the same people. It is a country up there
– Manfred’s expressive hands waved north – a curious, dull country, with curious, dull people. There is a man, a member of the Government, and there are men whom the Government have never heard of. You remember one Garcia, Manuel Garcia, leader in the Carlist movement; he is in England; it is the only country where he is safe; from England he directs the movement here, the great movement. You know of what I speak?
Thery nodded.
This year as well as last there has been a famine, men have been dying about the church doors, starving in the public squares; they have watched corrupt Government succeed corrupt Government; they have seen millions flow from the public treasury into the pockets of politicians. This year something will happen; the old régime must go. The Government know this; they know where the danger lies, they know their salvation can only come if Garcia is delivered into their hands before the organisation for revolt is complete. But Garcia is safe for the present and would be safe for all time were it not for a member of the English Government, who is about to introduce and pass into law a Bill. When that is passed, Garcia is as good as dead. You must help us to prevent that from ever becoming law; that is why we have sent for you.
Thery looked bewildered. But how?
he stammered.
Manfred drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to Thery. This, I think,
he said, speaking deliberately, is an exact copy of the police description of yourself.
Thery nodded. Manfred leant over and, pointing to a word that occurred halfway down the sheet, Is that your trade?
he asked.
Thery looked puzzled. Yes,
he replied.
Do you really know anything about that trade?
asked Manfred earnestly; and the other two men leant forward to catch the reply.
I know,
said Thery slowly, everything there is to be known: had it not been for a – mistake I might have earned great money.
Manfred heaved a sigh of relief and nodded to his two companions.
Then,
said he briskly, the English Minister is a dead man.
A NEWSPAPER STORY
On the fourteenth day of August, 19–, a tiny paragraph appeared at the foot of an unimportant page in London’s most sober journal to the effect that the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs had been much annoyed by the receipt of a number of threatening letters, and was prepared to pay a reward of fifty pounds to any person who would give such information as would lead to the apprehension and conviction of the person or persons, etc. The few people who read London’s most sober journal thought, in their ponderous Athenaeum Club way, that it was a remarkable thing that a Minister of State should be annoyed at anything; more remarkable that he should advertise his annoyance, and most remarkable of all that he could imagine for one minute that the offer of a reward would put a stop to the annoyance.
News editors of less sober but larger circulated newspapers, wearily scanning the dull columns of Old Sobriety, read the paragraph with a newly acquired interest.
Hullo, what’s this?
asked Smiles of the Comet, and cut out the paragraph with huge shears, pasted it upon a sheet of copy-paper and headed it:
Who is Sir Philip’s Correspondent?
As an afterthought – the Comet being in Opposition – he prefixed an introductory paragraph, humorously suggesting that the letters were from an intelligent electorate grown tired of the shilly-shallying methods of the Government.
The news editor of the Evening World – a white-haired gentleman of deliberate movement –